


Switch

by missmollyetc



Series: Pinch Runners [1]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Multi, OT3, Omega Verse, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1975665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buster isn't looking to bond--even a sports bond at this point--but he needs something to take his edges off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sophiahelix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/gifts).



> Thank you to my wonderful beta thefourthvine, who has the best opinions except about the pluperfect tense, and my lovely and patient friends, who I bombarded with various versions of this story over e-mail. 
> 
> And thank you to stepquietly, who made the really awesome fic cover for this!

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Mollyetc/media/switchcoverbystepquietly_zpse476ecb9.jpg.html)

The quiet room is _technically_ for omegas only, but there's a sign that lights up whenever an omega needs to be comforted/calmed by his alpha or beta to warn everyone else to stay out. Buster's just had one of those games where the team might have been at home, but they sure didn't play like it. The damn umpire rubbed his knee into Buster's back whenever he thought he could get away with it, just to make him 'arch properly'--fucking asshole--and the pitches didn't come because Vogey still can't make himself listen to an omega some nights, and the Rockies sucked but fuck if that mattered at the bottom of the ninth, and if they'd _listened_ to Buster, and not fucking pretended to just so they could pat him on the head for the cameras they might not have lost so terribly. But no, send in Sanchez. Fuck.

So he heads to the quiet room as quickly as possible, head down and his shoulders drawing up tightly to his neck. He throws open the door--it can't be locked, really, there's only a little bent nail in a hook on the other side, just a symbolic thing--and steps inside and the first fucking thing he sees is Tim on his knees for Hunter, hands tangled up in his t-shirt at the small of his back, and Hunter's very surprised face.

Buster leans out of the doorway, tilting backwards, and sure enough, there's the sign lit up. He looks back, and Hunter's got his big right hand curled over the back of Tim's head, holding him in place. Buster can see Tim's hands flexing in the t-shirt. His feet are bare.

His breath seems too loud suddenly. His arms come up, pause, and then cross over his chest. "Sorry," he says. "I'll get out of your way."

"No, hold on, it's cool," Hunter says. "I'm kinda the interloper here, huh? You can come in."

Buster shrugs, jerking his tense shoulders up and down as quickly as possible. He glances around, taking in the couches along the wall, and the silent television. One of the chairs has Hunter’s gear bag half-falling off it. Buster makes himself meet Hunter’s eyes, resisting the urge to duck his head, but Hunter only grins and scratches the nape of Timmy’s neck. Buster shuffles far enough into the room to let the door swing shut behind him. Hunter hasn’t moved from his chair, set back near the couches. Buster glances around, not that he really expects to see anyone else dumb enough to ignore the sign; alphas don’t like interruptions. 

“I can just find a couch, if it’s okay to be out of your line of sight,” Buster says, forcing his voice to stay even. 

Hunter shrugs. “I’m okay with you,” he says, and Buster doesn’t know whether to bristle or relax. He flexes his left shoulder, and shifts his weight on his feet. He should feel relieved, maybe even flattered, but it’s Hunter and he's the weirdest fucking alpha Buster's ever met, truth to tell. He's supposed to be the sort of journeyman alpha the media fuckin' love once they realize what they've got, the kind management brings in to work a locker room heavy on unattached players. Buster’s last sports bond was with one of those guys, not his worst bond, but not his favorite, either. It was like he was jerking off a business partner. 

“You gonna sit down?” Hunter asks, leaning back in his seat and cocking his head.

“Thinking about it,” Buster says. Snaps, really. 

Tim’s sigh is loud in the sudden quiet.

Hunter nods slowly, and Buster picks a hangnail off his thumb. Hunter’s not like Guzman, thank fuck, all hard eyes and quick hands; he’s playful, he’s funny, he works that smile on everybody indiscriminately. It’s not his fault Buster just wanted to shut out the fucking world someplace no one could pull him out of; Tim probably wanted that too, it was the whole point of a sports bond. Buster swallows, watching Hunter look down at Tim as he pulls on the thick wavy mass of dark hair at the top of Tim’s head and tilts his face upwards briefly. 

When Hunter signed on and went straight to Tim, Buster figured they were fucking in for it. Tim's attachment record is off the fucking charts, but he's slippery as fuck before you catch him. When Zito found unicorns or Jesus or something and broke it off for ‘something true,’ Tim spent Buster’s entire rookie season leading the bullpen around by the fucking nose. He’d cuddle up to Romo one minute, and then wander over to Wilson like KNBR didn’t have a whole podcast ‘discussing’ who should take Tim over, and whether it was worth it to buy him somebody if he couldn’t even manage a fastball anymore. But all Hunter did was shake Tim's hand and tell him he was glad to be there. And that was it, even the press had commented on it, the tabloids denied their latest scandalized headline. Buster wouldn't have even noticed shit had changed, except suddenly Hunter's locker was next to Tim's and the rubber bracelet around Tim's wrist read 'Pence' inside the band. 

It’s not like Buster’s disappointed or anything. 

He glances down at Tim, who’s twiddling his fingers in the t-shirt wrapped around his wrists, face back to being pressed against Hunter’s stomach, and then back up to Hunter. The air is cooler than usual, a little more dry against his face, and Buster shuffles his feet, trying to ignore the tightening of his skin, the weight of an alpha’s stare. 

“Kind of a tough one, huh?” Hunter says, and Buster breathes in sharply, deeply, through his mouth.

He coughs it out again, and squeezes his crossed arms against his chest. “Where do I even fucking start?” he asks, and hears Tim giggle.

Buster presses his lips together and drags in another too-deep breath. Hunter taps Tim on the top of his head twice with his index finger, and Tim sighs, nodding into Hunter’s stomach. Buster’s lower back aches, his knees feel bruised. He looks around the room, at the low couches and the semi-padded floor. He hoped--he figured Tim would be there, especially after that last out in the seventh; he thought maybe an hour or two on the couch with Tim wrapped around him would make the sting of everything pull back a little. It’s not all Buster needs, but it’s been working pretty well so far. It feels good to make Tim stay where he’s put for once.

“I should clear out,” he says, rocking back on his left heel. “You guys need your space, I’m sorry I didn’t see the sign.”

“Like I said, I’m the one breaking into your place, you know?” Hunter says. He’s stroking Tim’s hair. “I know my man here gets twitchy after a loss--” he tightens his grip when Tim snorts “--and I know there’s definitely guys who get lower, but I’m still not feeling all that right about it either, so…”

“The quiet room,” Buster finishes for him.

“It _is_ pretty quiet in here,” Hunter says, nodding. He glances down. “Hey, buddy, you ready to drop that shirt yet?”

Buster sees Tim sigh more than he hears it, but he knows the way Tim arches his back and the fluid arch of his shoulders. He’s felt that against his own body. Tim drops the t-shirt with a twist of his wrist, fingers fluttering, and turns around in the open vee of Hunter’s knees, flopping down on his ass as he rests his head inside Hunter’s thigh. There’s a little red mark just above his nipple on his left pec, like a bite.

“Hey, Posey,” Tim says, grinning wide enough to split his face. “Didn’t see you come in.”

“You’re such a brat,” Hunter says, slouching in his chair. Tim looks up at him, waggling his eyebrows, and Hunter tugs on Tim’s earlobe, smiling. The side of Tim’s head—is--Buster’s stomach twists just a little—Tim’s head is brushing the bulge of Hunter’s cock. Buster steps back and Hunter’s eyes snap back up to him. Buster stops moving.

“Been awhile, huh?” Hunter asks, and his tongue flicks out over his lower lip.

Buster can’t help copying him, wetting the seam of his own mouth with the tip of his tongue, and heat bursts up the back of his neck when Hunter runs his free hand up and down his thigh, the one Tim’s not leaning on. He pats his knee.

Buster breathes in sharply; he can smell them on the air. He wants to kneel, that’s the stupid thing. Buster’s dick twitches in his pants. It’s been so long since he’s gone for anyone, and Tim looks so good down there. He can feel the way Hunter and Tim resonate to each other like a shaking in his own bones, a half measure off their rhythm; it’s making him slick up. His eyes keep skittering away from Hunter’s long, bony fingers to Tim’s dark eyes and loose grin, and then back again. 

“Did somebody tell you about me?” he asks, watching Hunter’s thumb dig into his own knee. Buster’s arms fall to his sides, fingertips rubbing together. He knows the sort of reputation he’s got in the room--hell, in the entire show. Nobody ever seems to care about the three bonds he had in college, or the two in San Jose. The only thing they latch on to is how brave he was for coming back from his injury without bonding to anybody just to help with the pain. How great it is that he doesn’t need anybody _looking after him_. 

Buster swallows, and the ache in his lower back flares as he tenses up. Tim’s just grinning at him, toothy and happy, hard in his sweatpants ‘cause he’s getting petted by his alpha like he hasn't been clawing his way under Buster’s clothes for months. The shaky, sneaky heat in Buster’s gut turns into a burn. 

Tim stretches out his left foot to prod him in the ankle, and Buster flinches, shaking his head. He’s closer to them than he thought he was; he must’ve been drifting. 

“Don’t have to have a conversation with anyone to know it’s been awhile, babe,” Hunter says, and Buster jerks his chin up to look Hunter in the eyes. It doesn’t seem to bug him, and Buster wants to shiver. He shifts his weight, fighting the urge, and the brush of his pants against his dick makes him do it anyway. 

“He hates pet names,” Tim says, waggling his eyebrows.

Hunter grins slowly. “Oh yeah?” he asks, leaning forward and still holding Buster’s eyes. “Why’s that, sweetie?”

Buster frowns. Tim giggles. It’s all well and good for Tim, damn it; there’s no one in the entire fucking city of San Francisco who doesn’t want to coddle him or collar him or both. Buster’s the one they want to make into an ivory statue.

“Don’t get all soft on me,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Hunter beams, all teeth and blond scruff. He laughs and leans back in his chair, scratching his chest through his grey t-shirt. 

“Honey, with you two in the room there is no chance of that,” Hunter says.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Buster says.

“Dude, you walked, like, face first into that one,” Tim says. “But c’mere, okay? No, seriously.” He holds out his hand, palm up. “Come here. I was kind of…hoping, I mean, to see you.”

Hunter’s combing through Tim’s hair again, making Tim’s eyelids lower and his face go soft. Buster’s jaw gets a little stiff; he works it, staring at the cup of Tim’s palm and the flattened pads of his fingers. There’s a nick, like a paper cut maybe, at the top of Tim’s middle finger, and his fingernails have dirt underneath them. Tim didn't listen to him once all game, threw a ball so far from the plate it might as well have been a paying spectator, spit in the dirt to avoid looking at him while Buster trotted up to the mound, and then hugged the wall behind Hunter the rest of the game. He refused to say a word to the press, while Buster had to talk to them for thirty fucking years, it felt like, answering the same questions in as many different combinations as the reporters thought would confuse him. 

He can feel Hunter watching him, trying to stare through him and inside, but there’s no edged pressure in the air, no scent of an alpha getting fussy. This close in he can feel the beat of their bond in his chest, and it’s nothing like his heartbeat, which is trying to kill him all by itself, starting and stopping like it's forgetting how to work. Buster makes himself stay upright, no matter how much he wants to bend, to _present_ and be taken. His eyes are doing their circles again, Hunter’s knee to Tim’s hand and Hunter’s fingers in Tim’s hair. He swallows, over and over until his throat clicks with dryness, his tongue thick behind his teeth. 

“I can’t—I wo—don’t want, I want to be good, I do,” he says, rubbing his palms across his stomach and down his hips. Tim’s hand is falling back to his lap, and Buster’s stomach drops with it. “But I…it’s not that I don’t miss it.”

Hunter’s frown feels like an elbow in his spine, and Buster wants it gone as much as he wants Tim to smile again. Tim draws his legs up to his chest, and Buster aches, low and deep in his gut. Hunter clears his throat, and Buster takes a step back, hands reflexively clenching. 

“I don’t want a bond.” Buster spits it out, fast enough he almost doesn’t taste the sourness of his own words.

It’s true, though, when he thinks about it. He misses that rubber bracelet on his wrist that tells the world he has someone to call when he’s raw, or he’s screaming his way through a heat, someone whose job it is to stick him down until he’s ready to get back up. It always comes with the shit he can’t stand, though. Maybe it’d be different if it weren’t just a sports bond, easily made and easily traded, and maybe he could be less cautious in the majors, but every time Buster goes to the plate he can still see how those alphas and betas want him in his place and think they know just how to get him there. 

“It’s been awhile, though,” Hunter says, a little raspy and tight. His eyes are pinched at the sides, and Buster’s dick is rubbing up against his fly, and isn’t that a fucking joke.

Buster nods. “Yeah.” 

“It’s not good to go for long without anything,” Tim says, curling his arm over his shins.

Buster shrugs, and now he can hear a rumble in the air, a little tuneless rasp. Hunter’s lips are parted; he’s got his hand in Tim’s hair, but his nails are scratching his jeans’ leg. Buster’s knees ache to bend; he knows what he must smell like by now. Hunter hasn’t moved once from his chair, barely done anything but pet Tim. It’s all he does in the locker room, too, and he has the right to do more. He frowns. 

“You know,” Hunter says, “not everybody who grows up traditional stays traditional.”

“I know that, damn it,” Buster says, crossing his arms again. “I grew up…”

He trails off under Hunter’s stare and raised eyebrows, and shrugs. There are days he wants the whole package. Some games all he wants is to have someone else responsible for what he says to the press and how he looks when he says it, when he’s so fucking slick he’s sure the room can smell it, and Javi watches him while George packs their gear away, but he can’t, not after what happened to Melky.

“I just don’t want to,” he mutters finally.

“I won’t make you,” Hunter says, so quickly Buster has to think before he can understand it. “If you want…” He lifts his hand, and waves it around his lap. “It doesn’t have to change anything outside this room.”

The idea of it, on his knees for an alpha he’s not even--but they’re teammates, and that--that counts, sort of. Buster pushes the heel of his palm up his right temple and rubs into his hair. His stomach twists once, hard enough to shake his belly. 

“Buster?” Tim asks, and it’s like a shove. Tim’s not supposed to have worries here. It’s the quiet room, and that’s Buster’s job.

“It’s been forever,” he says, taking them both in, “and I like you, but no one would listen to me, and the fucking umpire wouldn’t stop crowding me, and Bochy fucking _patted my hand_ and—and I can’t anymore, please, not tonight.” 

The ceiling fan above them is shaking as it spins, but Buster feels the dry air bite inside of his mouth. He bends from the waist, stiffly, and he can’t help wishing he’d stopped at the trainers’ tables, but his knee knows how to fold and his body knows how to curl up into his—into an alpha’s space. He shudders, belly twisting, when Hunter’s hand lands on the back of his head, tilts his face up and whines out what puff of air he has left in his lungs as Hunter’s fingers press in on either side of his nape, rubbing just hard enough to hurt. Hunter smells like sweat and the soap from the locker showers. His irises are almost entirely blue, shockingly bright. He’s grinning with one side of his mouth, and Buster would be upset, but Hunter looks bigger when he’s above him, and he doesn’t look mean or bored, halfway home to his real bond. His other knee comes down when Hunter pulls him closer, inside the vee of his legs.

There’s not a lot of room; he’s got muscle and Tim is only tiny for a baseball player, but they’ve been closer than this in less space. Hunter bends Buster’s head down until his forehead reaches his leg, pulling him forward until he has to loop his arms over Hunter’s thighs for balance as he nuzzles into the crease of Hunter’s hip; it’s so fucking textbook Buster doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry from how good it feels. Hunter is all around him, Buster can smell him, be moved around by him, and never lose contact. His hands are shaking, hanging out in the air. He feels Tim shifting at his back, sliding up hot and close at Buster’s side, and then he hears them moving together, a murmuring growl and a giggle. His skin tingles beneath his clothes, cock rubbing up into his pants and his own slick ass making him clench in anticipation.

Hunter’s hand presses hard enough on the base of his neck to keep him in place, and it’s almost enough to kneel and listen to them, to be nothing but the body Tim leans against while his alpha kisses him. They’re making good sounds, soft moans and the slip of skin against skin. He focuses on them when his knees start to quiver. Tim’s waistband rubs against Buster’s hip, and Hunter is warm against his chest. He shifts, arching a little when Tim starts to slump, and then Hunter is twisting his head back up.

“What do you think?” Hunter asks, and his other hand is on Tim’s throat. “This isn’t so bad, huh?”

Buster lets Hunter tilt his head to rest against the meat of his thigh, slumping further when Hunter pushes him off and down to the floor between Hunter’s knees, onto his butt. Tim folds forward, and Buster raises his arms automatically, it’s just habit to hold Tim close and tuck his head underneath Buster’s chin, where Tim can smell him. His back muscles yank at his spine every time he moves, but Hunter’s palm is rubbing in circles over the spikes of hair at the top of his head. 

Buster tightens his hold, and Tim’s arms squeeze around his waist. Tim’s lips move inside Buster’s open collar, licking down to the hollow of his throat. Tim’s mouth is always so soft.

“Buster, I need you to answer,” Hunter says. “I know you’re all about the stoic hero and shit, but I gotta make it right for us all here, okay? Be a buddy and tell me what’s up in that major-league-star brain of yours.”

“You smell good,” Buster says, his mouth dropping open as Tim starts to suck at his collar. 

Hunter’s face sharpens, muscles in his cheeks twitching, and his hand on Buster’s head squeezes so hard Buster’s back arches. 

“You gotta give me more than that,” Hunter says, clearing his throat. 

Buster wants his eyes to stop slipping shut. He widens them, but then Tim’s tongue flickers up his Adam’s apple, and down they go again.

“Oh, honey…” Hunter mutters.

“Don’t call me that,” he says automatically.

“Buster Posey, I will call you schnookie pie on ESPN if you don’t open your eyes and talk to me like a grownup.”

Buster cracks open one eye, and then forces the other lid up, shuddering and digging his hands into Tim’s sides. The awkward twist of his legs hurts, but he’s braced on Hunter’s thigh, and sagging under Tim’s weight. Hunter’s frowning, and Buster doesn’t want that.

Tim’s hair tickles his nose. Buster twitches away, and Hunter’s hand slides out from behind his neck to palm the side of his face. Buster’s weirdly, instantly, glad he shaved. Tim’s mouth stutters over his neck as he pulls away, breathing quick and light over the wet spot he left. Hunter’s thigh is like a rock underneath his head, and his hand on Buster’s face is too hot. 

Tim leans back on his heels, slipping his fingers in the spaces between Buster’s shirt buttons. Buster tries to follow, bucking under Hunter’s grip. He stares at them both, heart thudding, licking his lips as Hunter leans down to kiss Tim on the forehead, and then the spaces underneath both of Tim’s eyes. He swallows when Hunter turns his head towards him. 

Buster pushes up from Hunter’s leg, shivering as Hunter’s hand slides down to his neck again, and comes closer to Hunter, steadier on his knees. He straddles Tim’s bent legs, and puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder for balance. Tim’s skin is soft and warm under his palm.

He licks his lips, pushing closer as Hunter’s mouth parts. The air smells like Tim’s cheap-ass aftershave. The heat from their bodies makes sweat bleed out from under his arms, sticking his button-down to his back. His bones feel heavy, and his back muscles shiver against each other like armored plates. He misses Tim’s weight.

Buster stretches his fingers out over Tim’s shoulders, and now he can’t make himself look Hunter in the eyes. He traces the line of Hunter’s arm where he’s touching Tim, freezing when Hunter lifts his forearm and covers Buster’s fingertips, angling so his left hand grips Buster’s arm. A muscle tics in Hunter’s cheek, high up on the bone underneath all that blond scruff. 

No, no, he’s said all he’s supposed to, more than he’s supposed to, and he can’t anymore. He shakes his head out of Hunter’s grip, heart skittering at being allowed to, but that just means Tim swings into view and Buster bites his lips together, breathing hard through his nostrils. Tim isn’t smiling, but he’s never had to for Buster; they don’t lie to each other—they don’t always agree, but they don’t lie.

Tim's hard, and sweaty along his hairline, and his arms are looped around Buster’s waist. “Hunter, don’t be a jerk,” he says, and now he’s grinning. Tim’s dark brown eyes are steady as he watches Buster, and Buster wants him, like always, like air.

“Yeah, Hunter,” Buster repeats, barely able to push the words out of his mouth. “Don’t be a jerk.”

He startles when Hunter laughs, a hard wild bark that has Buster whipping his head around and clutching down on Tim’s shoulders. Hunter’s scrubbing both hands up the sides of his upturned head; he drops his hands back to his lap, grinning so hard that if Buster was a dentist he’d charge for the view. 

“Two of you,” he says. He grabs the back of Buster’s head again, and suddenly they’re kissing. Buster shudders, mouth opening. He can feel their bond all around him, and the flickering, shark-skinned edges of Hunter’s bonding instinct touching his mind and sliding away. He wants it to catch, to scrape a new connection and fill him and give his cock a reason for being so stiff, and he’s so, so grateful that Hunter isn’t trying for him, just like he promised. Tim’s cock brushes against his from underneath him. Buster’s hips sway, ass in the air and so fucking _empty._

Tim’s hands scramble at his waist, pulling down and then around inside the waistband of Buster’s pants. His fingers push open his fly, dragging down the buttons. Hunter’s at the edges of his mind, holding back even as he slips his tongue past Buster’s teeth, dragging the tip along the ridges at the top of his mouth. Buster shakes as Tim’s hands pull his pants down as far as he can manage, hooking his underwear under his fingertips and scratching down Buster’s hips. His cock swings out and hits Tim’s chest with an audible splat, and Buster’s face burns. Hunter mumbles something, tilting Buster’s head further back. His hips snap forward, thrusting his cock across Tim’s chest, and Tim sighs. Buster feels Tim push his shirt up, and then the hot, wet ring of Tim’s mouth sucking a mark on his belly, as Hunter pulls away.

He hears himself whimper, arching to follow after Hunter’s mouth, but he lets Hunter turn his head downward, and then Tim’s sucking Buster’s lower lip between his teeth. Hunter rubs his fingers along the sides of Buster’s neck as they kiss.

“I’m gonna get the stuff out of the bag,” Hunter says. “And you have no idea how naked I want you both to be by the time I get back.”

Buster almost reaches for him, raising his left hand off Tim’s shoulder, but Hunter pushes down on Buster’s neck as he stands, and Tim grabs his hips; Buster is more than happy to fall down into Tim’s lap. Tim tastes like old toothpaste and a little like bubblegum, and he grabs hold of Buster’s ass with both hands, laughing into Buster’s mouth as they rock over onto the floor. Buster breaks the kiss just before their teeth can clash and buries his face into the side of Tim’s neck, nose in the thick short hair behind Tim’s ear.

This is what he came for, the softness of Tim’s skin and the slip of his fingers up and down Buster’s back. They’re usually on a couch, though, fully dressed and pretending Angel and Bum aren’t doing the same thing two couches away, not hearing the gasps and bitten off moans because they’re too busy rubbing off on each other. Tim’s breath hitches. He hums in Buster’s ear as they rock together on the floor. Buster runs his hands down to Tim’s biceps and then to the floor on either side. He shivers into a crouch above Tim and licks his lips while Tim’s hands tug open the buttons of his shirt. That little red bite mark just above Tim’s nipple is calling to him, the way it’s so small, so clearly placed to be felt and not seen. Buster’s leaning down to lick it before he really thinks about it, and Tim moans.

He stretches back up, slipping out of his shirt and tossing it to the side. Tim’s sweatpants are soft and thin, and they crumple in his hands as he drags them down and off Tim’s long, thin legs. Buster tosses them to the side, and leans closer. Tim’s cock trails slick lines over his thigh, flushed red and already bouncing in time with his quick breaths. Buster swallows. He can’t help stretching out his hand and running his palm up and down Tim’s dick, following the curve and circling the head.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he says, thumb just covering Tim’s slit. “I want… I…”

“Fuck yes,” Tim says, spreading his legs, “but get your pants off before--"

A condom and a couple of silver packets land on Tim’s stomach. Tim giggles, a little dopey, and Buster looks up. 

“Thought I said ‘be naked’ when I got back,” Hunter says, already bare himself. “You guys did hear that, right?”

He grins when he’s done talking, but Buster stiffens anyway, and drops his eyes to the smooth flat planes of Hunter’s chest. His stomach tenses when Hunter crouches down. He watches Tim lean up on his elbows for a kiss, and then Hunter’s hand folds around Buster’s knuckles, fingers curling in between Buster’s own as precome slips down Tim’s cock. 

Hunter elbows him in the biceps, and Buster glances up. “How about you get undressed?” Hunter asks, raising an eyebrow. “We’ll be here.”

He pulls Buster’s hand off Tim’s cock and brings it up to his mouth, and Buster can’t help but follow the path of his hand with his eyes. Heat breaks through the ache in his lower back, making him sway into an arch as Hunter watches him, licking Buster’s palm clean and sucking each of his fingertips with soft pulls of his lips. He kisses Buster’s thumb before he lets go.

Buster rears back, falling to his right hand, and then twisting to his feet. His opened pants tangle at his thighs, and the urge to pull them up briefly swamps how badly he wants them off. He crosses his arms over his chest, pressing down on the heat flushing upwards towards his neck. What’s--what the fuck? He frowns. Hunter’s braced above Tim now, sucking at the red mark on his chest, and Tim’s feet are rubbing at the cheap carpeting, digging in to angle his hips up into the air, cock falling against his stomach. 

Tim’s hands slide up and down Hunter’s arms and the bulky wings of his shoulder blades, and then move up to dig into the tight blond curls on Hunter’s head. His eyes are slits, but he smiles at Buster and jerks his chin before they close completely. Buster kicks his shoes off and toes off his socks as he watches them. Their bond sounds like a rattle in the back of his mind, thin but loud, and Hunter’s right there still, right at the edges, showing him how good Tim must have it, even in a sports bond. Buster squeezes his thighs together, thumbs in his waistband. Hunter’s hand drifts down the center of Tim’s chest, knocking off the little packets, and to the side, clenching hard at Tim’s hip. Tim jerks, and cries out; Hunter moans and licks up to his throat.

Buster pushes his pants and underwear down in one go and steps out of them, breath heavy in his chest and hot in his open mouth. The bond…if he were closer he could really feel it, but now he’s standing alone, naked. The air is cold and Buster grits his teeth as his own slick slides down the crack of his ass to the inside of his thighs. His cock bobs in front of him; he wants to touch it, cover it, but what if that’s not what Hunter wants? He had an alpha like that, who thought a bond—even a sports bond—meant Buster was supposed to be fucking telepathic. What if forgetting to be naked means he has to stand here and watch, hard and hollow and aching? 

Buster tries to calm his breathing, but he can’t stop himself from groaning when Tim draws his legs up, hands under his knees. Hunter looks over at him, licking his reddened lips, and grins toothily.

“All done?” he asks. “Get your ass back here.”

He nods at the space between Tim’s knees, and Buster’s halfway to the floor before he inhales again. He arches his neck for Hunter, mouth falling open as Hunter’s eyes go flat, and sighs when Hunter rubs his thumb over Buster’s Adam’s apple. It’s been so long since Buster’s felt anyone’s hands but Tim’s on his skin--well, anybody he knows--that Buster almost doesn’t know how to feel. Hunter’s not his alpha, Buster doesn’t want that, but the feel of him at the back of Buster’s mind makes him want to whimper and moan, to curl down under the heat of him until the long, thin cock curving out between Hunter’s thighs is pushing inside of him and locking into place. 

Tim rubs his foot up Buster’s leg, and then around to his side. Hunter nudges Buster with his hand, and he inches forward on his knees, clenching and unclenching his hands.

He closes his eyes as Hunter settles at his back, a little to his left. Blunt teeth graze his shoulder, and a soft slick tongue travels up the side of Buster’s neck. Hunter slides his hand down from Buster's neck to the knob of his spine, and he gasps.

“Now, you wanna know how it’s gonna go here, right?” Hunter asks. “I know how much you hate getting soft, sweetheart.”

Buster opens his eyes and meets Tim’s open-mouthed stare; his cock jerks, spitting precome between their bodies.

“Yeah, he does,” Tim answers for him, grinning as he licks his bottom lip. He’s rubbing his free hand above the head of his cock, fingers drawing endless circles in the wet skin.

“Of course he does,” Hunter says. “That’s what I love about this guy here, you know? Well, you do know.”

“Hey—”

“No talking,” Hunter says, and nips his earlobe. Buster sucks in air but he can’t get it down to his lungs. “I have a list of sounds you get to make today, Buster Posey, and according to my man here, words should not be what comes out of you.”

“Well, a couple of words,” Tim says, and Buster has no idea how he’s still holding one leg up; he feels like he's wavering on his knees. 

“Sure,” Hunter says. He kisses Buster right where his neck joins his shoulder, and starts dragging one finger down Buster’s spine in a slow curlicue. “Like ‘God.’”

Tim’s fingers are digging into his stomach above his glistening red cock. “Please.”

“More.” 

Buster’s skin is lighting up, prickling with the rub of their bond around him and the scratch of Hunter’s nail against his sweaty skin. Hunter’s finger trails down and down further still until it stalls right above the cleft of Buster’s ass, at the hottest, sorest spot. He presses down and Buster whines, high and hopelessly, hips shaking as he tries to spread in the tight space between Tim and Hunter.

“Oh, he can do that, too,” Tim says.

“Hand on your cock, baby.” Hunter leans in closer, Buster doesn’t see _how_ but he does, and fits his lips against Buster’s ear. “So my man here,” he says, turning just enough that they’re sort of watching Tim together, the way he cups his dick at the base and pants, hips perfectly still. “Tim needs a little extra something to get all ready, you know that, right?”

Buster shakes his head, blinking sweat out of his eyes. He feels his mouth open and close, lips working. They…they rub off on each other when they need to, clothes on and open only as necessary. It’s more…traditional, but now he can’t believe this is what he closed his eyes from. Tim shakes his head, and his hair falls off his forehead. Buster misses when it was longer, like silk in his hands. 

“Our heats never came on the same cycle when I was in between…you know,” Tim says. 

Hunter’s hands clench on Buster’s skin; his finger slides down enough that Buster’s eyes threaten to close again. Tim arches as Hunter’s presence swarms down around them all; Hunter’s growl vibrates through Buster’s own chest.

“Yeah,” Hunter says, voice rasping down the side of Buster’s neck. He shakes it off; Buster can feel the deliberate relaxation of the bond as Tim settles back to the carpet, and he breathes out slowly. Hunter braces his hand on small of Buster’s back, and leans forward, biting a kiss into the side of Tim’s calf as he picks through the packets he brought from his bag.

He holds one of them up for Buster to see. It's lube, and Buster blinks. He’s—he’s ready, he’s more than wet, he’s fucking sopping. He looks at Tim, then, and the helpless twitch of his hips; the roof of Buster’s mouth goes dry.

“Hold out your hand,” Hunter says, tearing open one of the lube packets with his teeth and spitting out the little silvery end.

He glances at Tim as he obeys, licking his lips when the gel hits his fingers and drips down to his palm. Tim shivers and resettles his grip on his left thigh before hiking his right higher on Buster’s side. Buster looks down between them; Tim’s hole is slick, but not much, and it’s nothing to the mess his cock is leaking onto his stomach. He meets Tim’s eyes; Tim shrugs, grinning crookedly.

Buster smiles back, swallowing, and Hunter kisses the side of his head. “You’ve done this before, right?” he asks, and rubs his finger down into Buster’s cleft. “You just do everything that I do, exactly, and we’ll be fine.”

Tim breathes out, and shakes his dark hair out of his eyes again. Buster leans forward, reaching out, and then Hunter sinks one long finger inside of his hole, and Buster clenches, shivering.

“Start like that, just like that,” Hunter says, rubbing his finger deeper inside of him. “God, you’re wet, you want Timmy to be that wet, too, right? One finger, Buster.”

Buster angles his hand, lube sliding down his index finger as he touches the rim of Tim’s hole and pushes inside. Tim sighs, and Buster can’t help but copy him; Hunter’s finger moves slowly out to the edge of his own hole and rubs around the rim before sinking back inside. Buster’s hand shakes as he follows along.

Tim’s hand hasn’t moved on his cock, just holding it flat against his stomach, but Buster can see his knuckles whitening. Hunter draws out, and now there are two fingers, one sliding in after the other. Buster’s cock is drooling on the carpet. He’s never been this hard.

“It’s been too long, when we—uh uh, Buster, God,” Hunter says, drawing out the words with barely enough air to hear them. “You’re so tight, I can feel you wincing.” 

He kisses Buster’s shoulder, fingers rubbing, just rubbing right on the nerves at his rim, and so Buster copies that, huffing the air as he does. Tim is breathing hard, too, hips pushing up for Buster’s fingers, opening for him as he’s opening for Hunter. The lube is smeared up his crack to his balls, some dripping to the floor; he’s taking Buster’s thrusts so well, though, and a flush is building high on his cheeks.

Hunter’s cock is pressing against Buster’s ass as he pulls his fingers out and slowly, so slowly pushes them back inside. “You’re doing real good for me, Buster,” he says, kissing the skin behind his ear. “God, I wish I could fuck you, right on top of Tim here, just spread you out and—fuck, oh fuck—”

He breaks off, breathing hard into the side of Buster’s neck. Buster whines and thrusts his ass backwards, pushing Hunter’s fingers deeper inside. Hunter’s cock is drooling down his ass; Buster wants it. Hunter shakes his head. He pulls back, and licks the rim of Buster’s ear. 

Buster shudders. He turns his head, and catches Hunter’s eyes with his own. He can feel Hunter at the edges of his mind, how easy Hunter could pry him open, and the worst of it is how good Buster knows it would feel. He wants that doubled heartbeat of a bond bearing down on the part of himself that he's kept closed. 

“If I knot you, I’m not letting you go,” Hunter says, fingers stilling. Buster whines when Hunter kisses him, biting Buster’s lower lip and breaking the kiss to pant against his mouth. “I promised you I wouldn’t bond, and this is how it’s got to be, baby.” He kisses him again, soft lips and a thrusting tongue. “I’ll make it so good, though, don’t worry.” 

“Hunter,” Tim says, loudly, and their bond snaps away from Buster’s mind. Hunter jerks his head to face front, and Buster follows him. Hunter breathes in slowly, chest flexing at Buster’s back. He rubs his fingers inside, crooking them a little so that Buster can’t help but jump. Hunter holds them inside of him as he leans over, and so Buster does too, putting up his free hand to Tim’s left leg to help hold him open. Hunter comes back with the second pack of lube. He grins when Tim moans and tears it open. He squirts the lube into Buster’s palm and tosses the silver packet away.

“Puh…” Buster shakes his head, clamping his lips together and swallowing. His fingers are all the way inside Tim, hot with a little friction; he clenches on Hunter’s fingers, caught in between, with their bond wrapping tighter at the base of his mind. 

Hunter hums, pulling out far enough that Buster can feel the third finger sliding through his own slick up to his rim. He shivers, jerks when he realizes he’s closed his eyes, and looks down at his own hand, trying to keep up.

“I bet that was a word,” Tim says. He moans as Hunter and Buster add that third finger and twist deep. “I bet I know—what it was.”

“Was it please?” Hunter asks, nosing down Buster’s hot cheek for a hard, brief kiss to the side of his mouth. “Say ‘please,’ Buster.”

Buster’s throat aches with how hard he’s been trying to keep quiet, to ride Hunter’s hand and not talk like a good omega, and keep opening Tim up for—oh God, he wants more, he wants something.

“Please,” he says, groaning, head falling back. “Please, please—”

“More,” Tim moans, watching them.

Hunter adds a fourth finger, so Buster does too. Buster tries to pump his hips, get some leverage for his arm, but Hunter stops him, spreads his big hand over Buster’s shuddering belly and keeps to his own pace. His fingers feel so thick inside Buster, spreading him open and holding him at the rim before slowly closing and sinking inside again, thumb resting just close enough to make Buster squirm. Tim’s hips rock against the carpet, reddening as his skin rubs against it. He’s so hot inside, hotter than Buster feels, even, and he’s wet, he’s good and wet, clenching down on Buster’s fingers every time he pushes in, and it's so good Buster can’t help but do the same to Hunter’s. 

His lower back is starting to burn a little, caught in an endless slow sway, and his balls feel tight; it makes him shake, sweat falling down his face. He turns his head to rest against Hunter’s and feels stubble against his lips. Hunter hasn’t stopped murmuring in his ear, how good he looks, how he’s almost perfect, how he knows Tim wants him inside soon and then Buster can fuck him as hard as he wants, all in that sandpaper voice that sounds like the bond Buster can feel between them, the prickling of psychic jaws at the back of his mind that says Hunter is still there, still not taking what Buster doesn’t want to give. 

Buster’s skin feels like it’s peeling away and he can’t stop shivering; Hunter’s fingers don’t seem to stop. The hand on his belly is rubbing into his skin, pressing deep into the muscle, only occasionally brushing his pubic hair. Then he goes lower, cupping Buster’s balls, and pulls them down, gently, slowly, rubbing the thin oversensitive skin all the way.

“No,” Hunter says, and Bust--no, it’s Tim, it’s Tim who’s whining, high and quiet; Buster doesn’t seem to have any air to make noise with. Hunter opens his mouth and presses his teeth into the ball of Buster’s shoulder. Buster watches Tim, the slick cavern of his mouth and the cloudy darkness of his eyes, and keeps twisting his hand like Hunter wants him to.

He starts when Hunter pushes a condom onto Buster’s shaft and then wraps his hand around the length of him. Hunter pulls out, and Buster whimpers but obeys, sliding free of Tim’s body. Buster’s chin drops to his chest. His hips twitch upwards into the air, feeling empty and still twitching. His own fingers feel tingly, overused. He stretches them out on Tim’s knee as Hunter rolls the condom onto Buster, and then gently pulls him forward by his cock, pushing with his other hand on Buster’s back, until the head bumps into Tim’s hole. Buster's lips part, dry air catching on his tongue, as Hunter pushes him inside, and Tim opens for him.

Tim arches his back as Buster sinks in inch by inch, cock still hard and shining in his white-knuckled grip. He’s so hot inside, wet and soft and slick with the lube Buster spent so much time fucking inside him. Buster groans when Hunter stops pushing and his balls are rubbing against Tim’s ass. Hunter slides his hand down Buster’s back and thrusts three fingers hard into Buster’s ass. Buster snarls, hips jerking, and Tim’s moan hits him low in the stomach.

“Just like that, Buster,” Hunter says, pulling out and doing it again. “You fuck him just like I showed you.”

His knees burn against the carpet as Buster digs in to set the pace, rocking into Tim hard enough to shake them both. Hunter moves away, and Buster whines, leaning forward and craning his neck to keep Hunter in sight as he stands, stroking his cock with his wet hand and staring first at Tim, then Buster, then Tim again. Hunter grins, eyes wide and showing white at the rims. Buster wants to reach for him, but Tim clenches so good on his cock that he can’t, he needs his hands for balance. He snaps his hips, thrusting in and clenching his ass to remind himself of the feel of Hunter’s fingers inside of him. Tim’s moaning, a constant, breathy sound that Buster wants to hear forever. 

Hunter moves, and Buster follows him with his eyes, licking his lips as Hunter goes to his knees at Tim’s head, cock waving above his open mouth. He runs his fingers through Tim’s hair, circling his fingers in the strands, and grips his cock with his other hand, feeding his cock between Tim’s pink lips until his whimpers are muffled by sucking. Buster swallows, heat and sore muscles flushing his skin, and resettles his hands on Tim’s hips. He just feels so good, constantly trying to keep Buster inside as he fucks him.

He thrusts deeper, angling for that spot that makes Tim’s stomach jump and his cock spill across his knuckles. Hunter’s holding Tim’s head up for him, aiming him so that he can get more past the head, but the angle’s wrong. Buster swallows again, eyesight narrowing as he feels gravity pulling him forward, moving Tim’s right leg to point at the ceiling. Hunter’s cock is long, with a thick blond bush at the base, and Tim’s lips can only go so far. Buster licks the corners of his mouth, breath shuddering as Tim whines and tries to get more. 

Hunter’s watching him, tongue caught between his front teeth, panting as Buster drops Tim’s left leg, and leans over to plant his hand on the carpet. Buster’s not so much thrusting as grinding now, close enough that the head of Tim’s cock is rubbing against his belly, just under his navel. Hunter barks a wild, shouting laugh as Buster falls all the way and wraps his mouth along Hunter's shaft, right where Tim’s mouth is trying so desperately to take in more than the angle allows him. Buster feels Hunter’s hand rub down the back of his head, a surge of the bond scraping past, and then he and Tim are trying to kiss around Hunter’s cock, and trying to lick what they can’t suck. 

He thrusts in and out of Tim’s hole, trying to keep the pace Hunter wants. Tim is shaking beneath him and Buster’s back is howling, he can feel the blood firing down his veins and into his cock, the way Tim wants a knot he doesn’t have, but Hunter is salty beneath his tongue, slick and hard and Buster wants a taste more than--almost anything. 

His breath hisses out of his mouth when Hunter pulls him up and away, gripping him high on the biceps and dragging him up to stare at his wide blue eyes.

“You wanna come, right, Buster?” he says, and Buster can’t look away, can’t stop thrusting. He drops Timmy’s leg to his shoulder, and grabs on to Tim’s wrist, lungs shuddering. Hunter licks over his bottom lip and kisses him, tongue fucking past his teeth, and pulls back before Buster has the chance to react. Hunter moves back, and Buster hears Tim groan, unmuffled. 

“Yeah, you wanna come,” Hunter says, “And I know you, Buster Posey, you wanna see Timmy come just as much, you wanna be good for him here.”

“Please,” Buster whispers, knees aching. His balls draw up against his body as sweat drips down the sides of his face. He wants to be good and come and make Tim scream for them.

“God,” Tim moans. “Oh God.”

“Please, _God_ ,” Buster says, groaning, clenching his ass and thrusting. “Please--”

“More,” Hunter says, raising his eyebrows. 

“More,” Buster repeats, feeling Timmy start to shake beneath him. “Please, God, more, please more. Please, please more.”

“Now,” Hunter says, and squeezes tightly at the base of Buster’s skull.

Buster wails, mouth dropping open as he thrusts as hard as he can into Tim, staring into Hunter’s face as he comes. White noise rushes up from the back of his mind and scrubs him clean. 

He stays inside of Tim as long as he can, grinding against his ass when he softens enough to slip out. He whimpers into Hunter’s shoulder as Hunter holds him up, Tim’s leg between them, and pulls the condom off his cock. He feels Hunter throw it somewhere, hears the splat. Buster licks his lips, panting. His come is dripping down his legs as he watches Tim spread out on the carpet, shaking and hard. Hunter’s still talking, stroking his cock, twisting his fingers at the head and then pumping quickly up the shaft. Buster reaches out to touch, numb fingers brushing Hunter’s balls. 

“You’re so good for me,” Hunter says, rubbing his thumb over his cockhead. “You’ve been so patient and I’m so glad you’ll do this for me. I can feel how much you want to come, and you aren’t, and I’m so proud.”

Tim’s looking up into Hunter's face, licking his bruised lips over and over again with the tip of his tongue, and when Buster licks his own lips, he can taste Hunter—maybe them both. Tim’s cock looks like it hurts, almost purple with blood; his balls are tight to his body.

“Buster’s gonna suck you,” Hunter’s saying. “And when he does, you can come, okay? You’ve been so good, letting him get his breath back. Buster?”

Buster looks up, mouth already parting, and Hunter smiles at him. Buster feels his lips turn up, chest loose and warm. 

“It’s okay, you can suck him,” Hunter says, and Buster leans down, letting Hunter’s arm support his middle as he fits his mouth above Tim’s knuckles, right over the head of his cock. Tim’s hand disappears, and Buster sinks down farther, tongue flat along the vein of Tim’s cock. He hears Tim wail, and throws his arm over Tim’s hips to hold him down as he comes, bucking up from the carpet in sharp, deep thrusts. Hunter grunts above them, but then Buster’s too busy swallowing to listen, focusing on not letting himself choke.

He pulls off when Hunter tugs on him, swallowing and licking the corners of his mouth. He falls back against Hunter’s side as Hunter comes himself, in a grunting sort of moan as he spurts over Tim’s throat. Buster nuzzles the rise of Hunter’s pec.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Hunter says, rubbing his come into Tim’s skin. His voice is softer, less hoarse, and Buster blinks slowly. “We’re good. You guys, come here, yeah…” 

He leans down on his side, and pulls Buster down to lie half on top of Tim. Buster stretches his back, gasping as Tim’s skin slides against his. Tim’s arm wraps around his lower back as they settle against each other, with Hunter curled above them. He’s petting them, Buster realizes as his eyes close. Scenting them and anchoring them as they drift. Buster feels stretched out and malleable, open and sensitive. He can feel them both around him, the weight of their bond, and the lightness of his own mind. Tim’s lips move across the side of his head, breath slowing as Hunter pets them, one after the other, hands on their skin and in their hair. He sighs in Buster’s ear, already half-asleep, and Buster follows him all the way down.


End file.
